Wednesday, October 26, 2016

My nephew had been struggling with a diseased foot for more
than a year—it got infected and did not heal, likely a consequence of his type
1diabetes. He will have to have his leg amputated, a step that stunned
the entire family. In discussing his concerns, my sister told me that he
doesn't want his leg to just be cut off and thrown into the trash.

“That’s what they did with my breasts,” I said. “Cut them
off and threw them away.”

Hearing this, the rest of the family was silent, sort of
struck by my vehemence. I seldom give details about my breast cancer
treatment—living through it once was enough—so this surprised us all. Me most
of all.

I had no idea of the anger I had suppressed beneath a cheery
I’ve-got-this exterior. And to have
it come out so melodramatically and inappropriately—this was about Rod, not
me—was embarrassing. But that’s the case with repressed anger. It doesn't go
away; it just builds and eventually spews itself like a verbal volcano, scorching
all in its path.

So we returned to Rod’s issue, and our hope that he could
soon have surgery and that he would respond well. A month ago, doctors
amputated his leg beneath the knee and he is healing well. He’ll be measured
for a prosthesis in a few weeks.

My double mastectomy was the result of a second bout of
triple-negative breast cancer. I had successfully recovered from my first
round, in 2006, and was looking forward to celebrating ten years cancer-free.
So I was more angered than anything when the beast roared its nasty head in the
same breast in 2015, nine years almost to the day of my first diagnosis. The
second cancer was small, but I easily opted for a double mastectomy, wishing I
had done that the first time—just sliced the darn things off.

I didn't expect it to feel like this. Even after nine years of
working with breast cancer patients, corresponding with hundreds, writing a
book and scores of articles and starting a well-regarded cancer blog.

I look in the mirror
and see a disfigured woman looking back. My surgery looks like hell, frankly. I
have extra, uneven flaps on the bottoms and side of both former breasts. If I
don't wear my prosthesis, these bumps show through my shirt, looking like tiny
mole tunnels popping through my chest wall. A friend, who is a breast cancer
surgeon and survivor, says this type of result frustrates doctors. The problem:
docs operate on a woman while she is lying down and end up with a chest that is
nice and even and flat and clean. But when the woman stands up, gravity takes
over and packets of fat appear. These are not remainders of the breasts, but
fat tissue that had surrounded them. Multiple docs have checked my surgical
site and all is supposedly well—it’s healing as it is supposed to, and it falls within the
fairly wide spectrum of normal. It just looks awful.

My surgical scars don't line up, probably because I'd already had a lumpectomy in my left breast. I see photos of women who have cool tattoos on their breasts and who proudly go flat, but they actually are flat, with a clear surgical line across their chests, not a jagged barbed-wire looking strip.

Of course, I could have plastic surgery to smooth things
out, but I don't want more operations and more recuperation and more stuff added to my body. I do wish I’d had a plastic surgeon involved
with surgery in the first place. But I now have much better understanding of why
other women choose that route, especially younger women. I always got this
intellectually, but now I get it emotionally.

I have several decent prostheses—a fancy gel-filled one that
looks like a creature that washed up on a beach, a lighter foam set, and a
cotton-filled number. The creature looks the best on, but the cotton one feels
best. And I notice that, in photos, my body looks pretty trim and tight, with
the kind of firm breasts you don't normally see on a 70-year-old. So whoop.

I feel great and continue to walk two miles a day and hike
in the summer at our Colorado cabin. I’m writing another book and painting
again and enjoying my family. My husband and I travel a lot and just enjoy one
another in our down times.

So life, really, is good. And if Rod can move on after
losing a leg that is essential to his mobility, I can be just fine losing
breasts and having a chest that looks like a mistake.

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NOTE: I am all out of books, so I can no longer send them as part of the donation.

Surviving Triple-Negative Breast Cancer: Hope, Treatment, Recovery

Finally! A book about TNBC written by a woman who's been through it—Patricia Prijatel, founder and editor of this blog. If you like this blog, you'll love this book.

Patricia Prijatel

Founder of Positives About Negative and author of Surviving Triple Negative Breast Cancer

Top Cancer Blog

From Symphony Sisterhood

Welcome

When I was diagnosed with hormone-receptor-negative breast cancer, I required a positive attitude of myself—I was not going to let a disease have the upper hand. I hope I can share some at that attitude with you while I offer what I have learned in my trek through this disease as a patient and medical writer.

It's a given that life ends in death. Cancer just makes you face that inevitability more directly than you might have before. To me, that means living fully right now.

Three Mountain Dogs, a children's book by Patricia Prijatel

Triple-negative breast cancer (TNBC) lacks hormone receptors for estrogen, progesterone, and Her2/neu. It affects about 20 percent of all those with breast cancer. This blog offers information and hope for those with TNBC and other forms of hormone-negative breast cancer.

Calm Spirit Note Cards

Blank greeting cards with the Calm Spirit image are available in packets of 6. They're ideal for sending a personal message of encouragement to anyone living with cancer. Boxes of six are available for $10.00 and can be ordered by contacting my friend Madlyn at madlyn.ferraro@ gmail com. Individual cards are $2.50 each.